Time On My Hands 3
by Laura W
Summary: A few weeks after Voyager's return, someone watches Kathryn for a sign.


**NOTE:** My _third_ entry in the VAMB Time On My Hands challenge. I'm reasonably certain this is not what anyone is expecting. At all. In any way, shape, or form. :-)

**Time On My Hands 3**

She's never had this much time on her hands.

At first, I was frightened for her.

I remember what she was like after Daddy and Justin died. She became so withdrawn that we were all afraid she'd never recover. Mom was stronger, but she had Daddy's death to deal with, too. It was left to me to pull Kathryn out of her stupor then, and I was afraid I'd have to do it again.

When she turned up on Mom's doorstep after the debriefings, she had a pinched, sleepless look about her. It suddenly hit me that she'd gotten through all the media appearances on nothing but a grim determination to disguise how much the last seven years had cost her.

Well, grim determination and a daily gallon of strong black coffee, if I know my sister.

I'd watched her at the return party, dressed in her new Admiral's uniform. She worked the crowd like the professional she is, listening attentively to even the most boring of speeches, graciously accepting the accolades, proudly praising the strength of her crew.

I'd thought she was okay.

Until a few days later when she walked up Mom's porch steps with a bag slung over her slumped shoulder and dark smudges under her eyes. She looked exhausted. Not just physically exhausted, but mentally and emotionally drained, all blues and grays and jagged lines. Watching her drop her bag in the foyer and lean her back against the door, my fingers itched for a paintbrush. Here was a portrait of someone who had given all she had to give, saving nothing for herself.

Mom grabbed her arm and ushered her into the kitchen before I could fix the image in my memory.

The three of us sat down at the kitchen table. Mom had made brownies. Mom always makes brownies. I passed out the plates in silence. We all sat and munched. We'd had our big, tearful reunion days ago. Now Kathryn was on leave and had come home to rest.

Mom and I watched her, trying to look like we weren't. We hadn't talked about those days after Daddy and Justin's deaths, but I knew Mom remembered as well as I did. We were both waiting for the signs that Kathryn would withdraw again. The Starfleet counselors had met with all the families of the returnees, warning us about PTSD symptoms. But we already knew how Kathryn reacts to trauma, and we were anticipating it.

The tension was thick. I felt tight and jumpy, like a bowstring pulled too far. I was watching her so closely I think my eyes even started to water.

When she pushed her half-eaten brownie away, rose from her place at the table and announced she was going upstairs to take a nap, Mom and I both jumped up as if we'd been sitting on springs.

"Let's take a walk," I said. "Or we could bike over to the campus. Everything's in bloom in the Arboretum."

Kathryn's eyebrows rose. Before she could answer, Mom broke in.

"There's a matinee of _Much Ado About Nothing_ at the Norvelle Center. If we hurry, we could just make it." She smiled. "I hear the man playing Benedick is very handsome."

I rolled my eyes.

I'm not sure, but I think Kathryn did, too.

She stared at Mom and me, her expression amused and grateful and irritated all at once. "I know what you're doing, and I do appreciate it," she said. I started to say something but she held up her hand to stop me. "I assure you, I'm not going upstairs to wallow in guilt for the next three weeks. I've done all the wallowing I care to do. But I spent seven years in a part of space that was more hostile than not, trying to keep 150 people alive on a ship that was meant to be refitted in Spacedock every 12 months. I met a version of myself that I hope to God I never become. I just watched my best friend leave the planet with a woman half his age but without a backward glance. I have been feted, promoted, counseled, and debriefed. And in all that time, the one thing I have not done, or not done enough of, is sleep." She turned toward the staircase. "I intend to do that now. I'd appreciate it if you'd wake me for dinner."

At the foot of the stairs, she turned back and fixed me with a steely glare that would have made Daddy proud. "No bucket of ice water will be necessary."

And she stomped up the stairs.

When we heard her bedroom door close, Mom and I looked at each other with round eyes. "I guess she needs a nap," Mom said.

I shrugged. "I guess so."

"I hope she can find the bed."

I've heard she runs a tight ship and her Ready Room on _Voyager _was immaculate. But Kathryn has always kept a notoriously cluttered bedroom here, even as an adult. Maybe because she's always felt safe enough here to be a little less than perfect. And Mom had kept it just the way it was all this time. There was a very real possibility the bed was buried under a mountain of PADDs, books, tennis trophies and old uniforms.

She must have found it, though, and nobody needed to wake her for dinner. She came down on her own, looking a little less tired. The dark smudges were still there, but the pinched look was gone.

Two weeks have passed since then. I bring my husband and kids over whenever I can. My daughter Katie, Kathryn's namesake, can't keep her eyes off her Auntie. She's heard the stories about the famous Captain Janeway her whole life, and at six years old is prone to hero worship anyway. The two have been inseparable, playing with Mom's dog, restoring Daddy's old telescope, biking to Kirkwood Avenue for ice cream. I've even found them puttering in Mom's garden a few times. That surprised me; Kathryn used to hate gardening. Now she seems to enjoy it, although now and then I catch her staring at the plants with an expression more melancholy than a few tomato vines ought to inspire.

When anybody asks her how she's doing, she has one standard reply: "I'm keeping busy," delivered with a lopsided smile.

But I know better.

The inactivity is beginning to get to her.

Mom is still teaching Applied Mathematics at IU. Kathryn goes over to the campus with her now and then, but mostly she stays at home. I'm getting ready for a gallery showing up in Broad Ripple so I've been busy too.

This has left Kathryn with more time on her hands than I think she's ever had, probably more time than she's comfortable with. It's not that she's not introspective, but I know she doesn't like to spend too much time alone with her own thoughts. She's always done better with something to do, whether it was a tough backhand shot to perfect or a physics theory to master.

To that end, I started sending Katie over to her after school. Katie's just a first-grader and doesn't have much in the way of homework, but she still thinks it's novel to have Auntie Kathryn's help. They've been working together on everything from multiplication tables to Vulcan geography. Last night, Katie was practically breathless when she presented a spelling test Kathryn had helped her study for. Not only had Katie gotten every word on the list correct, she'd puzzled out the extra credit words, too.

I wish I had a phrase to describe the look on Kathryn's face when Katie handed her the school test PADD with the perfect score on it. Kathryn was proud, that much I could divine. But there was something else there, too, something...wistful. Like she'd suddenly found something that was lost, but then let it slip away again. Or realized it wasn't what she thought it was, maybe.

She was quiet for the rest of the evening. Oh, she was attentive to Katie, and helped me with Katie's little brother when he got fussy later on. But she was withdrawn. And I was worried.

I cornered her in the kitchen just before we left the house. "Is everything okay, Kathryn? You didn't seem like yourself this evening."

She frowned at me. "Didn't I?" she snapped. "And just how did I seem, if I didn't seem like myself?"

The ice in her voice shocked me. "I'm sorry if Katie upset you," I said quietly. "Maybe we'll stay out of your hair for a few days."

Kathryn stared at me, then her whole face just...crumbled. She turned away. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know... I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be doing here."

I put my bag down and turned her around to face me. She wasn't crying, but I could tell she was fighting it. I realized this wasn't the sign I'd been expecting, but it was a sign just the same. "You're supposed to be resting," I said. "And healing."

"How will I know?" she asked. "How will I know when I've rested enough and healed enough? And what am I supposed to do next, Phoebe?"

"I guess you do whatever Admirals do," I said. "What _do_ Admirals do, anyway?"

She chuckled. "No idea. They gave me the promotion and sent me on leave without telling me."

We sat down at the kitchen table. "Is there someone we could call for you? Someone you could talk to?"

She put her elbow on the table and jammed her chin into her fist. "No more counselors."

"Okay, but there has to be someone. How about Chakotay? Should we get him here?"

She grimaced. "No. Definitely not."

Oh. Well. That answered _that_ question.

"Is there anyone else?" I wracked my brain for the names of some of her old crew. "Owen's son? Tom – and his wife. They seemed to be worried about you. Could I call them for you?"

She blew out a long, slow breath. "No. They've got a new baby, and I can see them when I go back to San Francisco. And everyone else has their own lives to deal with." She spread her hands flat on the table. "I know you're worried, but let me think about it tonight, and then I'll call in the morning if there's anything you can do. All right?"

"How about you call me in the morning even if there's nothing I can do, Kathryn. Just to talk. Or if you want me to come over, I can. It's Saturday. Katie doesn't have school. So just call."

She nodded. "Deal."

I squeezed her hand. "It's going to be okay. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"It'll just take time. Time will make everything better."

"Phoebe, I know." She rubbed her forehead. "In fact, I know enough about time to fill several databanks. Go home. I'll call you in the morning."

And she did. She called me this morning, first thing. Frankly, I was a little surprised. But I was more surprised by her request.

"Phoebe," she said, "I had a fight with Mom's replicator, and I need a box."

I rolled my eyes. Kathryn and replicators. A love/hate relationship if there ever was one. "A box?"

She nodded. Even over the comm link I could tell that her eyes were more clear than they'd been in days. "A box. A big one. Can you help?"

"I...well, sure. What do you need a box for, Kathryn?"

She sighed. "Don't tell Mom, but I'm going to clean my room."

I laughed. "Without being told?"

"I know. Shocking, isn't it?"

"Sure is. Eddie is napping, but we'll be over in a couple hours with a box. A big one."

I signed off the comm link feeling more hopeful about Kathryn than I had since her return. Katie and I headed over later with the promised box, the biggest one I could manage.

When we offered to help her clean her room, she shook her head. "I think I need to do this alone."

"Are you sure you can handle it? I know you beat the Borg -"

"Twice."

"- twice – but that room..." I shuddered. "Should we send in a search party if we don't hear from you in 12 hours?"

"I'll make sure to stay in comm range." And she headed up the stairs.

She's clearly still got work to do to find herself again, and I guess her old bedroom is a pretty good place to start looking.

But it's a good thing she's got so much time on her hands.

END


End file.
